


Poor Sleep Hygiene

by ohhaypsy



Series: Who Are These Douchebags? [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Karkat Swearing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhaypsy/pseuds/ohhaypsy
Summary: PTSD's a helluva thing.Describes an incident referenced inSelf-Flagellating Masturbatory Pity Party Solo Hour, but can be read as a stand-alone.





	Poor Sleep Hygiene

**Author's Note:**

> I realized I've been writing everything in second-person perspective recently. Homestuck, you've ruined me.

The inanity of two people who barely sleep trying to sleep together isn’t lost on you.

You’ve always been an intense insomniac, plagued by worries and fears and stresses that kept you staring at the ceiling for hours. And then of course the game just ramped all that shit up to exponential levels, keeping you awake for periods of time that would have driven lesser trolls batfuck insane. The dark circles under your eyes are just a part of your aesthetic; you wouldn’t look like yourself without them, just like your unmanageable hair, your nubby horns, or your scrawny, weak meat sack of a body.

God, you’re an ugly piece of shit.

But when you finally succumb to exhaustion, you might as well be falling into a coma. You’ve long gotten used to sleeping without a recuperacoon, and Dave has shown you the many delights of sleeping in a bed instead of in a pile of shit on the ground. So after days of being awake, you curl up in a mound of blankets and pass out for ten hours or so, almost entirely dead to the world. Dave’s figured out some rather inventive ways to pull you out of hibernation when need be, though.

Even so, your sleep is rarely restful. Fucking dreambubbles.

Dave’s sleep patterns stray to the opposite end of the shitty spectrum. Rather than actually _sleep,_ he takes frequent meowbeast naps, rarely for more than fifteen minutes at a time. About once a day, he’ll fold himself up somewhere for an hour or two to do a bit more recharging. You’ve tried to call him out on it, but he’ll counter by asking how long you’ve currently been awake, and it just devolves into a fight because neither of you are all that good at backing down -- both when defending your self-destructive habits, _and_ when expressing concern about the other.

You both sleep more normally after sex. As if you needed another excuse; you’re both hormonal teenage males after all. All the media you’ve consumed over your span has suggested you're both way too young for those sort of concupiscent shenanigans, but after the end of two worlds, who’s fucking business is it that you’re playing hide-the-tentacle with each other?

Besides, you’ve got a level of comfort with Dave that you’ve never experienced in your short, pitiful span. You feel safe with him. And judging by the way he’s curled up halfway across your lap, he feels the same way about you.

He’d passed out about halfway through Zombieland, one of the few movies you both legitimately enjoy. Enough action and humor for him, enough nuanced relationships between the characters for you. He’d even taken the time to explain the cultural references to you, though some of the jokes still go over your head.

Twinkies were surprisingly easy to alchemize. Fucking disgusting, but you appreciate the effort he takes to share human culture with you, terrible as it is.

You card your fingers through his hair, strangely enjoying the moment of rare silence. Neither of you are particularly good with quiet, having grown up with far too much of it. His muttered babbling is incessant, while Dave’s caught you mid insulting diatribe directed at the hungertrunk’s parentage when you’ve felt overwhelmed by the silence.

You enjoy Dave like this, restful and at ease. Not that you don’t enjoy him when he’s awake and in full blown insufferable prick-mode, but like this you’re not also wrapped up in rage and annoyance at his existence. Not to mention it’s just nice to see him relaxed.

You care about this asshole, and so when his face pinches and he squirms in his sleep, you frown in concern. He doesn’t talk about it, but there’s some shit in his past, and you know firsthand how dreambubbles can stir said shit up pretty hard. But even if it isn’t restful, you know that his body needs the sleep. So you run your fingers through his hair, scratching the back of his skull to try and soothe him, the way you used to do with Gamzee.

Fuck, don’t think about that piece of shit. Dave’s here in your lap, in distress, don’t think about your asshole ex-moirail.

The soothing doesn’t work though, and he’s tossing and turning on your lap, breathing shallow and his bloodpusher racing. His elbow connects with your gut and you start to panic. “Dave!” He’s not waking up. He’s a light sleeper he’s always so easy to wake up _why the fuck isn’t he waking up!_

He’s flailing now, muttering words you can’t understand, and you catch another elbow, under your jaw this time, hard enough to make your teeth clack together audibly. Finally you get out from under him, pulling off his shades and tossing them aside, pushing him down onto the couch beneath you. You second-guess yourself as he starts throwing fists but panic is overriding logic. You shake him hard, you have to wake him up you have to wake him up _now._

_”DAVE!”_

Finally, red eyes snap open wide, and before you can breathe, you’re being flung off the couch and Dave is over you and your shoulder is _burning_ in pain from the broken shitty anime sword lodged in your _fucking shoulder._

You scream. You scream and you’re not sure if you’re worried or relieved that your respiteblock is probably too far to wake anyone else. You scream because _what the fuck else are you supposed to do_ when the douchebag that’s taken solitary residence in every single one of your quadrants has run your shoulder nearly clean through. You scream because _holy shit fuck it HURTS._

It at least snaps Dave out of whatever sort of trance he’s in, and his face shifts to a different sort of panic. “FUCK! Karkat oh fuck oh fuck I’m so sorry!” His hands go to the wound, applying pressure around the blade but not taking it out.

Under your awareness, there’s a realization that you’ve never heard him shout like that before. The rest of you, however, is yelling, “FUCK, TAKE IT OUT.” Out loud.

He shakes his head fervently. “Not yet, I have to make sure I-- oh fuck, that I didn’t hit an artery oh fuck, oh god, Karkat, I’m so sorry, fuck fuck fuck.”

You grit your teeth against the pain; it feels like he’s digging his fingers around in your wound. He’s still talking to you, babbling in panic. “Breathe, breathe, please, I need you to keep breathing.”

You want to shout at him, ask him what the fuck just happened, but all that’s coming out is _”Fuck fuck Mother Grub nook sucking cock fucker FUCK!”_

He at least maintains some modicum of cool. “Okay, fuck, okay, no artery, just, fuck, I’m sorry just--”

You scream again as he pulls out the blade, trying to ignore the bright red of your blood everywhere.

“I got you, I got you, shit, that probably means fuck all right now, but it’s okay, I promise.” He’s ripping your shirt now, using the fabric to staunch the wound. “Can you sit up? You gotta sit up, we gotta slow your heart rate, get the cut above your heart, slow down the bleeding, fuck, Karkat, I’m so--”

“WHAT THE FUCK, DAVE?” You’re snarling, instincts to fight, to survive rising in you. You let him sit you up, crying out as your shoulder is jostled. It’s not the first time you’ve been stabbed, but it hurts so much more than Jack’s greeting. Once you’re up, you push Dave away, reflexively scrabbling back from him, from your attacker. “YOU FUCKING STABBED ME YOU BULGE GRABBING FUCKWAD ASS HUMPING--”

Your words die in a strangled gasp. Dave is against the far wall, as far away from you as trollishly possible, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands as he shakes.

He’s _crying._

Every last drop of rage flees from you. You can’t be angry, not as your heart swells with pity, watching him shake as he heaves deep breaths. Not when the only thing stopping you from holding him and papping the fuck out of him is the burning pain and bleeding from your shoulder. Fuck. Fuck he’s crying, _sobbing,_ and stabbed or not, you have to do something.

“Dave,” you start quietly, trying to inch closer to him, but stop when he flinches away. “Dave? It’s okay. I’m okay. Shit, this shit happens. Besides, trolls are way more kick ass and durable than humans, we stab each other all the time, it’s not even a big deal. Dave?”

“I’m sorry…” The words are barely audible, a whimper amidst sobs.

“I know. It’s okay. You didn’t-- fuck, it’s pretty fucking obvious you had no intention of doing this, we can figure it out in a minute, okay? Right now, though--” You pull your shirt away from your wound, hissing faintly. Goddamn, you really are grateful for durable troll biology; the bleeding has mostly tapered off. The sight of your red everywhere makes you queasy, though. “Right now, I need your help, I can’t fix this myself and we don’t have a healer. Can you help me?” You hope that giving him a task will help pull him out of it.

It works, sort of. “Right. Right, I can-- yeah okay.” He doesn’t look at you as he unfolds himself, no longer sobbing, but dismay fluids still streaming from his eyes. Your own eyes start to dampen as he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, almost overwhelmed with the need to pile, the need to fix what’s hurting him, right the fuck _now._

His hands are shaking only a little bit as he pulls antiseptic and gauze out of his sylladex and fuck you sure as hell do not want to think about why he carries that sort of shit around with him. You carry that sort of shit, but that’s because you’re a hyper paranoid control freak who compulsively shoves any stupid fucking thing into your sylladex in the off chance that you _might_ need it at some point.

You hiss as he applies the antiseptic, and his face shuts down. “...Fuck me. You’re gonna need stitches.” His voice is closer to normal now, though you can hear a quiet anger in his tone.

“That’s fine, I can ask Kanaya--”

“Fuck no.” He doesn’t let you finish, grinding out the words. “I can do it, this is my fucking fault.” He’s done cleaning, and pulls out a needle and thread.

You don’t want to ask. But you do anyway. “Dave. How do you know how to do stitches?”

He threads the needle, not looking at you. “No offense, babe, but why the fuck do you think?”

His lusus. His Bro. You hadn’t watched his life that closely on Trollian, far more (embarrassingly) fixated on John. But you had seen enough that you know you shouldn’t have asked such a stupid fucking awful question you shit-gobbling fuckstick.

You reach for his shirt, clutching it so hard you’d be worried about tearing it if he wasn’t wearing magic pajamas. “Dave…”

“Not-- just. Let me finish first, okay?” His voice is shaking again, and you stay quiet, letting him focus. Normally, you enjoy the rare silences between the two of you, the bizarre comfort it brings. This time, with it only broken by your occasional pained noises, you hate it.

When he’s done, he ties off the stitches and applies more antiseptic, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from whimpering like a grub. You don’t even wait for him to put everything away before you grab him, holding him tight to you, even as he weakly attempts to pull away.

“Dude, you’re gonna pop your stitches.”

“I don’t give a fuck, they’re my stitches to pop, and I’ll pop them if I goddamn well please! You gave them to me, they’re mine and oh fuck that was the wrong thing to say, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry, I’m a fucking idiot, just--” You know he’s not going to want to talk about it, but you need to, _he_ needs to. “Dave, what the fuck _happened?_ You started flipping your shit in your sleep, was it a dreambubble?”

He groans and you let him finally pull away. He rubs his face, trying to hide the pained expression. “It’s nothing, just a dumb nightmare.”

 _”A dumb nightmare?_ No, no, fuck you that’s _hoofbeast shit,_ Dave!” You’re trying to keep your voice calm and, surprise sur-fucking-prise, are failing miserably at keeping the fear and worry out of it. You grab at his sleeve to pull him to you again and _”FUCK”_ there goes one of your stitches.

”STOP! _Stop fucking moving!”_ You freeze because _holy shit Dave is yelling._ His hands find your face, stroking and papping you. He’s crying again. “Stop, just stop, I’m sorry, fuck, this is all my fault, just stay still, _please_ stay still.”

You touch his face, using your good arm, and not thinking about how kinky this mutual papping would be under normal circumstances. You’ve watched a _lot_ of pale porn over the years. “Okay, it’s okay, I’m okay, I’m sorry I yelled, fuck.” You breathe deeply, turning your face into his hand to stop your mouth from running.

You pull him close enough to press your forehead to his, and you two just sit there, holding each other’s faces. He’s too scared to hold you because of your shoulder, and you’re too scared to hold him because of how scared _he_ is. So you sit, both of you miraculously quiet, until your breathing is under control.

“Dave,” you finally whisper, faces still centimeters apart. “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head, his eyes closed tightly in a failed attempt to not cry. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know. I’ve got you, it’s gonna be okay.” You tilt your face to kiss him, ever blurring quadrants. You’re just glad he doesn’t pull away.

\--

Neither of you sleep for awhile after that.

You both try to pretend like everything’s normal, and no one’s the wiser. You’re careful of your stitches, trying to keep Dave’s attention away from the wound. He only has to fix them up once. When you do start attempting to sleep again, Dave doesn’t do it with you, obviously trying to avoid a repeat incident.

He almost starts crying again when he takes the stitches out.

You’re exhausted. You can’t sleep anymore, not without being curled around that bastard. You wake up every time you start to doze, reaching for him, and you hate being so dependent on his presence, but hate him not being there even more. Your shoulder has healed over, you’re done with this shit.

Practically kicking open the common room door, you zero in on him. He’s talking to Rose, but you don’t care. He’s your moirail, among other things, and you need comfort. So you stomp over and grab him by the sleeve, ignoring Rose, and yank the fucker out the door.

“Whoa bro, big kids use their words, remember?”

“No, fuck you Strider, shut your stupid nonsense hole.” You’re pretty sure if you looked back you might be able to see worry behind his shades, but you don’t bother. Not right now. “We are not fucking talking right now.”

“Said no Karkat ever.”

“I DON’T NEED YOUR FUCKING SASS RIGHT NOW.”

Unceremoniously, you kick him into your room, and lock the door behind you. You don’t hesitate before moving to pull off his shirt.

“Hold up, babe, I don’t think we should--”

“I said shut _up.”_ You toss his shirt, leaving him in his pants as you shove him over to the bed. Propped up on his elbows, he watches you in confusion as you undress also. “You don’t want to talk about it, so we’re not gonna fucking talk about it, fine. Take off your goddamn shoes.” You glare at him until he kicks off the slippers he wears around the meteor.

You specifically leave your shirt on, but are down to your boxers as you move to the bed. “But if we’re going to just pretend nothing happened, then we are going to actually pretend that _nothing fucking happened.”_ You crawl onto the bed with him, pushing his arms out of the way so you can lay down, your head on his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. “I don’t care, I’m doing this, I’m making sleep fucking _happen!”_

Not exactly the most soothing thing, but you’ve slept angrier.

Dave squirms under you. “Karkat--”

_”No.”_

“Come on, I just--”

“I’M SLEEPING.”

“Babe, let me--”

“ZZZZZ.”

 _”Dude.”_ He finally manages to shove you away enough to scramble to his feet. He looks harried, which is a look you refuse to admit you love on him, but also makes you feel a little bit guilty. But you know Dave. And sometimes he has to be dragged kicking and screaming out of his comfort zone. Except he just stands in the center of the room, running his hands through his hair, resolutely _not_ looking at you.

Shit. Okay, maybe you dragged a little too hard. You stupid fucking idiot, this is just like trying to shake him out of his daymare, when will you fucking _learn?!_

Slowly, carefully, you scoot to sit on the edge of the bed. “Dave.” You speak as soft as you can manage, which probably isn’t very. “I just want to sleep with you again.”

He’s torn. You can see it in the way he glances at you for just a second before looking away. You hold your breath as he fights with himself, wondering if this is how you finally manage to push him away from you.

“Okay,” he finally says, taking off his shades and setting them on the nightstand. He still hesitates though, before pulling his sword out of his specibus.

You stop yourself from flinching before realizing what he’s doing. “Dave, you don’t have to--”

“Yeah, I kinda do.” He moves to set it in the opposite corner of the room, fingers lingering on the hilt as though it’s taking everything in him to let it go. It probably is.

He finally comes back over to the bed, crawling in as you shift to make space for both of you to lay down. He settles with his head on your chest, his stupid hair tickling your nose. You both shift a few times to find proper comfort, and when you do, his hand is resting on your shoulder.

Neither of you sleep well that night. But you do sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing inside Karkat's head is a lot harder than just writing Karkat.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


End file.
